


Lost in You

by TammyRenH



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Domestic Winchesters (Supernatural), First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TammyRenH/pseuds/TammyRenH
Summary: With no big bads or pending apocalypses, Sam and Dean take a road trip to pick up rare books left to Sam by an online acquaintance. A nice couple rents them a cabin for the night and they think their biggest problem is that they are going to have to share a bed. That is, until they try to leave the next day...
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 70
Kudos: 455





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to peach-coke for the lovely art that inspired this story, and to my beta Jen for her help. As always, I appreciate so much any kudos or comments I receive, they are what keeps me writing and my muse well fed.
> 
> Peach-Coke’s beautiful art can be found here: https://peach-coke.livejournal.com/37695.html

  
It is late afternoon, the muted rays of the sun bathe the inside of the car in a golden light.

There is no pending apocalypse, no big bad to hunt down and to kill, no need to hurry back to the bunker.

Sam is sprawled in the passenger’s seat, open book in his lap. He looks over at Dean and just beams, and Dean’s heart does a weird kind of stutter and he forces his eyes off his brother and back on the road.

Dean hasn’t seen Sam this relaxed, this happy, in a long time. Because he can’t help himself, he looks over at Sam again, Sam sparkles, his grin is wide, eyes alight with enthusiasm. The feeling of contentment swelling in him is so rare, it takes Dean a minute or so to recognize the emotion.

An online acquaintance of Sam’s, a rare book dealer, recently passed and left Sam many of his books, some of which were now in the back seat, one of which, a book with an unpronounceable name about ancient spells and curses, was the one Sam was reading from. With nothing earth ending facing them, and the rare gift of time on their hands, they had taken the trip to Missouri, up into the Ozark’s, to pick up the books. The trip so far had been uneventful, which was a nice change of pace. Dean had half expected a demon to emerge when they picked up the books, or to be greeted by werewolves, surrounded by woods as they were, but the man’s daughter just gave them a sad smile and handed Sam the package with his name on it.

“You can see someone pieced together this book out of many other books,” Sam says, flipping through the pages. “It’s written in many languages, some of which I don’t recognize. There must be some kind of common thread between these spells, some reason someone gathered all these pages together and bound them.” Sam carefully turns a few more pages. “Wow.”

“What?” Dean asks, looking from the curvy mountain road to Sam. “What is it?”

“This page, I can feel it. It’s giving some kind of heat,” Sam’s voice is full of wonder, like a heat giving ancient page written by heaven knows who with a spell scrawled on it is a good thing. To Dean’s surprise, Sam pulls his hand off the wheel, and places it against the paper.

“Do you feel that?”

All Dean feels is Sam’s fingers holding on to his wrist, and yeah there is heat with that. Dean snatches his hand back before he does something stupid like turn his hand around, slip his hand inside of Sam’s. “I didn’t feel anything, but then I’m not the witch.”

“Not a witch,” Sam touches the page again, with just a tip of a finger. “You really didn’t feel that?”

Dean eyes the book uneasily. “Maybe you should put that away until you can decipher what it is exactly the spell does.”

“Yeah, that probably would be a good idea,” Sam says, but he is still touching the paper, like it is a compulsion and Dean resists the urge to yank Sam’s hand off the page and toss the book out the window. “I’m going to check to see what language this is.”

Sam gets out his phone, types on it, frowns. “What?” Dean asks.

“No signal,” Sam answers, turning the phone this way and that as if that is going to help.

“I thought you could always get a signal,” Dean teases. “I thought there was a tower hidden underneath all that hair.”

“Very funny,” Sam comments dryly, putting up his phone. “It’s getting late, maybe we can find a hotel to spend the night. Head home in the morning.”

“Not a lot out here,” Dean replies, peering out at the road. He really doesn’t relish the idea of navigating the curves in the dark, but the road is deserted. Trees, trees and more trees and nothing else. “Haven’t even run across a house in I don’t know how long.”

Beside him, as if working on some internal cue meant to goad Dean into action, Sam’s stomach rumbles. “I’ll find us somewhere,” Dean promises. “Of course, it would have been easier if you hadn’t taken out all the maps out of the car.”

“We have this,” Sam points out, holding up his phone. “Much more accurate than a map.”

“Apparently not, since it’s not working right now.”

Sam sits up straighter, closes the book. “Are you lost?”

Dean snorts. “Lost, of course I’m not lost. I don’t get lost.”

“Where are we then?” Sam asks, looking out his window. There is not much for him to look at, woods on either side, the twisty road ahead of them barely wide enough for two cars.

“In Missouri still.” Dean steers through another series of curves. How long had it been since they had even seen another car? Maybe he should have focused on the road more, and Sam less. “Probably.”

“Great,” Sam sighs, the book forgotten on his lap.

They both watch the road for a while, looking for road signs, or hotel signs, or any sign of life. Dean checks the gas gauge; they need to find something soon.

“There!” Sam points to a place on his side of the road. There is a narrow road to Dean’s left, a wooden structure of some kind just visible.

Dean makes a sharp turn onto the road. There is a sign above the building ‘Cabins for Rent.’

Dean stops the car, gets out, stretching his back as he does so. Traveling long stretches is harder on his body than it used to be, not that he is ever going to say that out loud. He looks across the car to see Sam unfolding his long body, looking around. “Wonder where the cabins are,” he muses.

“Don’t know, but I say we stay here tonight, hopefully there’s some kind of restaurant inside.”

“Hope this place has wi-fi,” Sam says doubtfully.

It definitely looks run-down, the steps leading to the door dusty and a bit rickety. Dean carefully makes his way up them, opens the door, steps inside ahead of Sam.

There is a long counter on one side of the room, a few chairs that look like they were picked up at a flea market scattered around an unlit fireplace. There is no sign of life.

“Anyone here?” Dean walks up the counter. There is a bell sitting dead center and nothing else has been placed on it. No computer, no cash register, nothing. He hits the top of the bell a few times. “I think this place is deserted,” Sam says and is immediately proven wrong by an elderly lady appearing from the back. She is wiping off her hands on an apron. She is wearing some kind of flowy dress, one that goes all the way down to her ankles. Her silver white hair is up in a bun.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you gentlemen come in,” she says as she makes her slow way up to the counter, She appears thin and frail, like the slightest wind would cause her to topple tight over. But there is a kind of ethereal exquisiteness about her, an echo of the great beauty she must have once been. “Excuse my appearance. I was taking a pie out of the oven when I heard the bell.”

Dean looks at Sam, Sam rolls his eyes. “You’ve won my brother over forever, he loves pie.”

“Well who doesn’t?” the woman asks, who apparently is very smart and has excellent taste. “It’s an apple pie, it’s cooling right now. I’ll give you boys a slice if you would like.”

“Yes, yes definitely. I’ll take his slice too, that way it won’t go to waste or anything.” Dean ignores Sam’s second eye roll. “The sign outside says you have cabins to rent?”

“Well, just the one. Nowadays, we don’t get much business up here. My husband, Tristan, he doesn’t get around too good anymore, couldn’t keep the others up. But the one is empty, I cleaned it and aired it out just the other day. If you boys are interested.”

“Yes, sure.” Dean pulls out his wallet. Gone were the stolen credit cards that used to fill it, Sam had insisted that once they found the bunker, they should go legitimate. He sold some of the items they found in the bunker online, they also discovered a safe with some money and other valuables inside it. They weren’t rich by any means but paying for a room now and then was well within their means, even if it still gave Dean a pang to pay for such things with real money.

The cabin charge is low enough, Dean is able to pay with cash. He signs the guest register as Dean and Sam Smith, because old habits die hard, and receives a receipt in that name.

“The cabin is down this road a spell, just keep following the curves. If you see an abandoned well, you’ve gone too far.”

Any restaurants nearby?” Sam asks.

The woman laughs. “Round these parts? No. But the cabin is stocked, and I could make you boys a few ham sandwiches to take with you if you give me a minute.”

“Sounds good ma’am,” Sam says, always Boy Scout polite.

“And you mentioned something about pie?” Dean prods because it would be a shame if she forgot.

“Be right back,” she promises. “I won’t forget the pie.”

“Nice lady,” Dean comments to Sam after she disappears to the back of the building, which presumably holds the living quarters of the elderly couple.

“You think anyone is nice who bakes pies,” Sam says. “They could be a serial killer, but as long as they baked you a pie, they’d be okay in your book.”

“If she was a serial killer, you’d propose to her,” Dean teases. “At least my passion for pie is healthy, unlike your thing for serial killers.”

“I don’t have a thing –” Sam starts.

The woman reenters the room, followed by a man, bent over with age, carrying a brown paper bag. He must be the husband.

“Here you go,” she says, handing Dean two pieces of pie, on real plates, covered by saran wrap. Tristan hands Sam the brown paper bag, presumably with the sandwiches.

Thank you, Mrs.…”

“Just call me Issy, everyone else does nowadays. Will you boys be needing anything else?” It is clear they want to get back to their lives behind that door, supper is probably on the stove, waiting for their return.

“Directions to the nearest town?” Dean asks. “I’m running low on gas.”

“There’s a town about 60 miles down the road, I think they still have a gas station of some kind. There are probably a couple cans of gas in the shed behind the cabin that we leave for the lawnmower. You are welcome to them if you have the need of ‘em.” Tristan says.

“Thank you, we appreciate that. Do we need to drop the key off here in the morning?” Sam asks.

“Just leave it in the cabin, you don’t have to bother locking up. Ain’t nobody going to bother anything up here.” Tristan replies. The elderly couple are holding hands now, standing close together and obviously still in love. Dean wonders how long they’ve been together.

Sam thanks them again, and they leave them to their supper and get back in the car. Dean’s back protests, but he ignores it.

It turns out that ‘a spell’ is about five miles of sharp turns on a gravel road, before they finally spot the cabin.

On the outside, it appears to be in fairly good shape. It is an old-fashioned log cabin, with a chimney and a deck on the side of it.

Sam unlocks the cabin door, as Dean grabs their bags.

It is late spring, and the sun is just beginning to set, but Dean is not prepared for how chilly it is inside the cabin. There is a fireplace, but unlit and no wood stacked nearby.

“At least there is electricity,” Sam says, turning on lights as they look around the place. There is a kitchen, a few heavy pots and pans hanging above a wooden island. There is a green refrigerator that looks like it walked off a 1960’s Sears catalog, but when Dean opens it there are eggs, bacon, and some vegetables. Issy had apparently recently stocked the place. The cabinets turn out to contain canned goods, crackers, marshmallows, and a box of vanilla wafers.

Dean goes back outside to retrieve the pies from the back floorboard of Baby and sets them down carefully on the kitchen table.

“No central heat and air, so it’s probably going to get a little chilly tonight,” Sam says, opening the brown paper bag and pulling out three sandwiches. Dean takes one, pushes the other two toward Sam because after all he has pie. Sam checks out the refrigerator, hums in appreciation when he sees the vegetables like the health nut that he is. He gets to work quickly, chopping up some tomatoes and cucumbers to eat with his sandwiches.

Dean wanders around the cabin as he eats his sandwich. Besides the kitchen, there is a living room with a sitting area around the fireplace. A bedroom down the hallway, Dean looks inside. Pushed against the far wall there is a large bed, made out of some kind of dark wood. There are a couple of dressers. No television.

The bathroom has the basic necessities, and a large bathtub, the old-fashioned clawfoot kind you see in old movies. No shower.

He returns to the kitchen where Sam is leaning over the counter, happily munching on his sandwich and veggies. There is a large empty spot where he had set the pie pieces down. “Where’s the pie?”

Sam looks at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “What pie?”

“The pie I left right here,” Dean says sternly because pie is serious business.

Sam looks around, exaggeratedly, checks under the table, looks under his sandwich. “I think being lost must have scrambled your brains, because as you can clearly see,there is no pie.”

“I’m giving you fair warning, cough up the pie,” Dean orders, narrowing his eyes at Sam.

“I still have no idea what you are talking about dude,” Sam says, but he is putting down his plate, eyeing Dean warily.

Dean grins big, then grabs the book that is laying in front of Sam and runs like hell.

He might have aged a bit, but he is still the fastest runner around. He has the faucets running, the bathtub filling up before Sam, breathing heavily, rushes into the bathroom.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sam is not looking at Dean but at his precious book, held just inches above the water.

Uh uh uh, one more step and this book takes a bath,” Dean warns, lowering the book so it is precariously close to the water.

“The pie is in the stove,” Sam replies. “Now give me the book.”

“You burnt my pie?” Dean asks, mock dropping the book, but does not actually let go of it.

“The stove’s not on, c’mon Dean that book is worth more than –”

Dean tosses the book at Sam who catches it by reflex.

He finds his pie in the oven, both slices safe and unburnt. He eats them both to ensure nothing else happens to them.

He looks out the kitchen window, up here the night sky is so bright, the stars look close enough to reach out and grab.

“There’s uh – only one bed,” Sam says, he is shivering slightly. Being late spring, neither had brought jackets.

“I noticed that with my keen observation skills,” Dean replies, “It will be okay Sammy, we’ve shared a bed before.”

“Yeah, when I was like six.”

“If you think I’m going to sleep on the cold hard floor,” Dean says, indicating the dark hardwood that most homeowners would kill for. “Then you can think again.”

“I’m just saying,” Sam replies, then shrugs. “At least it’s a big bed.”

“Yeah, almost big enough for your giraffe legs,” Dean says, pulling away from the window. “Might as well turn in early, get an early start tomorrow. You can take the first bath; figures we would find the only place on earth without a shower.”

“I’ll be sure to leave plenty of bubbles for you,” Sam teases. He is grinning again, that wide open smile that Dean wants to freeze frame, to keep the picture of it in his mind forever.

“You do that.”

Dean cleans up the kitchen, not that they made much of a mess. Goes outside and checks on Baby, makes sure she is locked up tight. The crickets are making a mighty racket, and Dean thinks he sees the pale light of a firefly or two. Might be a good thing, someday, when they retire, if they retire, to find a cabin and spend a bit of time there. It is peaceful here. Of course, Sam would wither away and die without internet, so it would have to be a cabin with working wi-fi.

Sam is in bed, still pouring over that book when Dean finishes locking up and heads for the bathroom himself. He far prefers showers, but the bathwater is warm when he sinks into it, and Dean feels some of the muscles in his back begin to loosen.

Getting out of the water, the cool air hits him and Dean makes quick work of changing into some lounge pants and a white t-shirt, and brushes his teeth.

Sam is lying down, eyes closed, but he is not asleep. Sam never could fake sleep well; Dean could always tell when he was pretending. Still, Dean lets him have his pretense if it makes Sam feel more comfortable.

Dean turns out the light, slides into bed. The quilt is thick and handmade, heaven knows how long ago, but it is comfy and warm. Dean looks over where Sam is lying on his side, back to him. An impulse, as strong as it is sudden, to reach out and stroke his hands through Sam’s hair, knowing he would find it silky and soft sears through him and Dean makes himself turn the other way, away from Sam.

His last thought before drifting into nothingness is that Sam would never have shared this bed with him, not in a million years, if he knew what Dean yearned for, if he knew the feelings Dean had for him….


	2. Sam

He knows he is dreaming, knows from the way the colors are too bright, how the scene keeps changing.

He is sitting on a porch beside Dean, there are chickens pecking the ground in the yard that stretches endlessly before them, then the scene switches and kittens play near their feet and a black crow caws at them from his perch on the large oak tree that looms over them. He is on a front porch with Dean, and they are holding hands, and it feels right, his hand wrapped around Dean’s.

He is standing on the front porch, and there is a child yelling somewhere, leaves are falling off the oak tree, Dean is smiling up at him.

He is on the front porch and Dean leans over, his lips are so close, they are wet like he just licked them and bee stung to perfection and Sam hungers and Dean leans closer as the chickens begin to dance and there is something heavy on his chest, something heavier than his heart…

Sam wakes up with a start.

He is lying very close to Dean, one of his arms is flung over Dean’s stomach. Dean’s back is to his front, pressing against his chest. One of his legs is draped over Dean’s.

Thank the fates or whoever, but Dean is still asleep. 

Sam pulls away from him slowly, carefully, as not to wake his brother. He remembers falling asleep, long after Dean had, facing the other way, careful to keep their bodies apart. He hadn’t wanted Dean to see the longing in his eyes, that he could not quite stow away like he usually could, not with Dean so close and the one quilt covering both of them.

Sam creeps out of the bedroom, makes a quick trip to the bathroom, back into the bedroom to gather their things and quietly pack them away, and then heads to the kitchen. He isn’t as good as a cook as Dean, it doesn’t come naturally to him like it does Dean, but he can fry some bacon, scramble some eggs.

Breakfast is almost finished when he feels the air shift in the room. He looks up from the skillet to see Dean standing there, his hair tousled, his T-shirt wrinkled and bunched up at the waist and showing just a little bit of his stomach. Sam quickly turns his attention back to the eggs.

“Aw, my own personal Susie Homemaker,” Dean says, walking over to the stove.

“Shut up,” Sam replies, more or less automatically. 

“Did you have to ruin the eggs with all that green stuff?” Dean asks, peering into the skillet as Sam quickly finishes with the eggs.

“The ‘green stuff’ is peppers, you like peppers. You’ll eat it and like it,” Sam declares, putting the eggs on the two plates that already hold bacon and some ready to bake biscuits he had found in the refrigerator and had just pulled out of the oven.

“Whatever you say Susie,” Dean smirks at him, grabbing both their plates and taking them to the small round table in the center of the room. “No coffee?”

Sam shrugs. “No coffee, none that I could find anyway.”

“The heathens. Oh well, I guess I can survive until we reach civilization.” Dean picks up his fork and begins to eat. “Sammy, this is really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Sam replies. “I’ve got everything packed up; we can leave right after we finish this.”

Dean makes short work of his food, then as he is passing Sam on the way to the sink, he surprises Sam by leaning over and kissing him on the forehead. “Thank you, Susie, for breakfast, that was very nice of you.”

Sam bends his head over his plate, hoping his hair hides the faint blush he feels creeping over his cheeks.

Sam washes the dishes as Dean packs up the car. He turns off the kitchen light, then turns it back on to triple check that all the burners on the stove are off. He leaves the key on the small table by the door and takes his place in the passenger seat.

Dean already has a Van Halen tape in the deck, playing it obnoxiously loud. He is obviously waiting for Sam to say something, but Sam doesn’t give him the satisfaction. They take off back down the curvy road with David Lee Roth ordering them to Jump.

Sam’s not paying a lot of attention, so he’s not prepared when he looks up to see they are approaching the cabin. The same cabin they had just left.

“What the hell?” Dean asks at the same time he does. “Jinx,” they say to each other in unison. They flash matching grins, before looking dumbfounded at the cabin.

“I must have somehow made a wrong turn,” Dean says, clearly puzzled.

Sam looks over at him, eyebrows raised. “You think?”

Dean mumbles something under his breath that is probably best that Sam doesn’t hear, turns down the music to a less ear-splitting level, and takes off again.

This time Sam pays attention. They drive around one curve, then another.

And end up right back at the cabin.

“What the hell?” Dean asks again. Sam does not have an answer.

Dean turns the music all the way off, grips the wheel tightly. One curve, two, three – and the cabin.

This time Dean doesn’t say anything. He turns left this time, headed away from the highway. A few curves, back at the cabin.

Something is very, very wrong.

“Spirit of some kind that doesn’t want us to leave?” Sam hazards.

“If there is a spirit in there, it’s a damn polite one. Didn’t hear a peep from him all night,” Dean says, as he is getting out of the car, Sam follows him. “It’s fucking witches, only thing that makes sense. I’m going to tear that cabin apart until I find that hex bag, then I am going to take it back to Tristan and Issy and shove it into a very special place of their bodies.”

Sam isn’t so sure that it is witchcraft, but he has nothing else to go on, so he follows Dean into the cabin.

The cabin isn’t that big, Sam starts in the kitchen. He finds a bag of green coffee beans; hidden behind the biggest package of sugar he has ever seen. He finds evidence of recent canning, finds old recipes, finds one of those ships in a bottle way back in the top cabinet. But he does not find a hex bag.

In the living room, it is clear Dean has searched everywhere, including inside the couch cushions. Sam winces at the foam strewn everywhere and reminds himself that the couch was a flea market reject.

They search the bedroom together; Sam says nothing as Dean digs through the mattress. They search under the bed, in every dresser drawer, even pull up the raggedy piece on the floor that used to be a rug and check the floorboards for any loose ones. Nothing.

The bathroom elicits the same result.

Dean’s vibrating, he's so tense and Sam tries to think what else it could be. If not witches, if not spirits then – a curse?

He thinks about the book, about the heat he felt when he touched it.

He goes back to the car, retrieves the book from the backseat. Sets it on the shredded couch.

“Let’s try again.”

“You think it’s the book?” Dean asks.

“I think we should cover all bases. There is something about that book, I have no idea if a book could possess enough power to trap us, but after everything we’ve experienced, I’m not ruling it out.”

“Okay,” Dean pulls out his car keys. “Let’s roll.”

Fifteen minutes later, and five failed attempts, they are back at the cabin.

Dean heads back to the cabin to begin the search all over again, Sam sits on one of the two rocking chairs in front of the cabin and searches through the book.

He goes page by page. He recognizes Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Farsi. 

He gets to the page he had touched in the car; he could still feel something – alive is the only word he could think of, about the page. He studies every word on the page, there aren’t many, twenty-six to be exact. It is maybe Gaelic, but he is not sure. On the other side of the page, a depiction of what looks to be wind, two whirling sets of lines, that intersect. There is a man dressed in some kind of brown garment and shoes with laces that crisscross up to his knee. His face is turned toward the wind, only the back of his head is visible. Across from him, a hand, small and delicate, is visible, reaching toward the man,

Dean hands Sam crackers that are slightly stale, covered with peanut butter and Sam realizes it’s afternoon. He’s been staring at the book for hours.

“No luck?” Sam guesses as he takes the glass filled with water and drinks. Belatedly he wonders if the water is safe, but if it is not, it is too late now. Besides, he doesn’t think this – whatever this is – wants to kill them. It wants to keep them. And it has something to do with these two pages, he doesn’t know why he is so certain, he just is. The book wants them to stay, but why? So that they can study the wind? Be like the wind? 

The cabin, when he goes back in, is in worse shape than it was before. It is clear there are no hex bags here, or magic of any kind. Nothing drawn on the walls, nothing scratched into the floor.

For a long time, they sit by each other on what is left of the couch, and come up with theories, every one of them stranger and more impossible than the last, but strange and impossible is their norm.

Dean decides to check out the property, see if there are other buildings or anything that can also be searched. The old man had mentioned a shed.

Sam has an idea of his own.

If it is a curse, he can’t magick it away, not without proper materials, or any knowledge of what the curse is.

But he can burn the book.

He pushes aside ruthlessly the loss he already feels before he even gathers the sticks to make the fire. It’s just a book. An old book, yes. A book that he could spend hours, days, studying and learning. - no, he won’t think about that. There is a way out of here, and if the book is the key, destroying it is the only plan that makes sense.

He gets what he needs from the trunk of the car, lights the fire, watches it until it is blazing, holding the book in his hands the entire time.

He takes a deep breath, tosses the book into the fire.

It lies there, unscathed.

Sam retrieves it, tosses it again this time more toward the center of the blazing branches.

Nothing happens to the book.

He has to use a stick to push it out this time, the stick catches on fire. The book’s pages aren’t even singed.

He goes back to the car, removes one of the other books he inherited from the pile of them sitting on the back seat. This one is a history of some obscure Greek gods, written in ancient Greek.

He takes it to the fire, drops it in.

It starts burning immediately.

Sam grabs another stick, and hurriedly pushes the book out of the fire. He has a bucket of water beside him, he drops the book into the bucket.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how you clean books,” Dean states from beside him.

Sam, who has crouched over the bucket, almost falls over. 

Sam stands up, shading his eyes from the setting sun. It’s been several hours since they tried to leave the cabin.

“The book won’t burn,” Sam says.

“Looks pretty burnt to me,” Dean is looking into the bucket. Sam feels a deep sense of guilt over the burnt book, so many myths, destroyed. Maybe he can salvage a few pages, get them copied and saved in the bunker’s online archive that he created. Assuming he ever has access to the internet again.

“This one,” Sam hands Dean the book. Dean drops it into the fire. Sam retrieves it. It’s in pristine condition.

“Huh,” Dean says and then heads over to the rocking chairs and pulls them over by the fire.

“Do you think that old couple has anything to do with this?” Dean asks

It feels off-balancing, to sit rocking in a chair, watching a fire burn, while being trapped in a place you can’t leave.

But there is nothing else really to be done at the moment, so Sam rocks and thinks about it. “I think it’s the book, but I guess there could be a correlation between the book and the couple.”

“Like one of those fantasy shows where the character just leaps out of a page of a book,” Dean says. 

“Could be,” Sam agrees and looks over at Dean. He realizes his mistake immediately.

The stars are out, and Dean outshines them. He is looking at Sam, his jade eyes reflecting the light of the fire and the dream from the night before floods Sam’s senses. He thinks about the feeling of holding Dean’s hand in his, thinks of Dean leaning over, his lips wet, his mouth – 

“I’ll be right back,” Dean declares, and heads back into the cabin.

Sam thinks seriously about dumping the entire bucket of cold water on top of his head, because obviously he needs something to bring himself back to his senses. Instead, he sets the wet, burnt book on top of Baby to dry, and places the probably cursed book back in Baby’s trunk.

When he gets back to the fire, Dean has a stick in hand, and is whittling one end with a knife. By his feet are a bag of marshmallows. “You have to be kidding me,” Sam says as he sits back in the other rocking chair.

“I tried one, Issy must have brought them with her when she aired out the place. They are still good. Now if we just had some graham crackers and chocolate, we could have us some s’mores.”

Dean hands Sam the stick with a marshmallow already speared on top. “Are you twelve?” Sam asks him.

“We aren’t going to be able to figure out anything more tonight. We’ll try again in the morning when we are fresh. Until then, might as well roast some marshmallows and enjoy the night.”

Sam cannot argue with that logic, does not really want to. They sit side by side, eating marshmallows burnt beyond all recognition, in companionable silence until they are both so stuffed, neither one of them could eat one more.

Dean picks up the almost empty bag of marshmallows, as Sam douses the fire. He feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder and looks over at his brother. “We’ll figure this out, we always do.”

Sam nods, but he’s not so sure.

They get ready for bed. Sam thinks about sleeping on the couch for a hot minute, but the torn up couch wouldn’t make for a good night’s sleep, plus he can’t think of an excuse to sleep there that doesn’t have him confessing he is afraid he is going to molest Dean in his sleep.

Sam gets in bed first because Dean wants to sleep closest to the door. He says it is what he is used to, Sam knows it’s that eternal protective streak of Dean’s but does not call him on it. At least Dean’s feelings toward him are normal, even if a little misguided as it’s been years since Sam has needed protecting. Sam’s for Dean on the other hand- best not to think about it.

To Sam’s surprise, once under the quilt, Dean scoots closer to Sam, then turns his back. Dean is close enough to touch and for an exceedingly long time Sam lies there, hands clenched tightly together, looking at the ceiling.

Finally, he turns toward the wall, their backs only a few inches apart. 

Sam thinks he will just lie there for a while, pretend to sleep, then get up and maybe check out the book again.

But the next time he opens his eyes, it is to the morning sunlight streaming in the window above his head and he is in the bed alone.


	3. Dean

“You feel so good,” Dean mumbles as he presses closer.

The person in front of him shifts, and sighs.

Dean is wide awake instantly; he would recognize that sigh anywhere.

His body is pressed against Sam’s back, and his hard dick is pressed against something it has no business pressing against.

Dean scoots away from Sam quickly, almost toppling off his bed in his hurry to put some distance between them.

Fuck.

He has always known his feelings for Sam are – intense is the only word he allows himself. But never in a million years has he ever imagined he would find himself dry humping his brother as Sam slept.

Dean rushes into the bathroom and curses the lack of a shower. However, ducking his head under ice cold water does the trick, by the time he leaves the bathroom his dick is soft, and he’s firmly regulated the events of the morning to the back of his brain, where they belong.

He searches the kitchen, looking for something to cook for breakfast and decides on oatmeal. Oatmeal has the taste and texture of mashed up paper towels, but Sam likes it. He even finds raisins in the cupboard and a bag of shelled pecans in a freezer bag that he adds to the oatmeal to give the icky substance at least a little bit of flavor. He’s just debating braving the bedroom and waking Sammy up before his breakfast gets cold, when Sam enters the kitchen.

“Look who is Susie Homemaker this morning,” Sam says, accepting the bowl from Dean.

“Shut up and eat it before it gets mushier,” Dean grumbles and wishes for about the thousandth time there was coffee. Sam had found some coffee beans, but neither one of them was sure how to turn those into actual coffee. He’d even settle for instant or – shudder of all shudders – decaf.

Breakfast is quick, cleanup is quicker, and they decide to try their luck at leaving the cabin. Neither one of them has much hope, and neither are surprised when they end back up at the cabin again and again.

“Let me try,” Sam says to him after they round the curve to face the cabin for the third time.

Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. “You aren’t suggesting there is something wrong with my driving, are you?”

“Heavens no,” says Sam. “I am just saying we should try every variation we can think of. And me driving would be a variation.”

Dean does not like the idea.

He does not like the idea of handing over the car keys to his Baby to anyone, even Sam.

He does not like the idea of Sam driving when there were so many unknowns. 

Still, he can’t think of a reason to refuse that doesn’t sound petty, so he hands over the car keys.

“Be gentle with her,” he admonishes as they both get out of the vehicle to change places. 

“Sometimes I think you care more about this car than you do m – anyone,” Sam grumbles as he walks around the car.

Dean waits until Sam is safely seated and pats the hood of the car. “Be gentle with him,” he whispers to her and then takes his place in the passenger seat which feels so wrong his skin begins to tingle. It isn’t the first time Sam has driven, or even the fiftieth, still, each and every time Dean has to almost sit on his hands not to grab the steering wheel as Sam turns it too sharply to the left.

It feels almost like relief when they end up right back at the cabin.

Sam’s shoulders are hunched over when they walk back up to the cabin, and Dean knows Sam is blaming himself because that is exactly like something the kid would do. Luckily, he knows just how to distract them. “Did I tell you there’s a garden behind the shed?”

Sam looks up, instantly interested, like Dean knew he would be. “A garden? Really?”

“Got stuff growing too, red stuff and yellow stuff and a lot of that green stuff you care so much about.”

“It’s a little too early for a garden to produce much in the way of produce,” Sam says doubtfully.

Dean shrugs. “Go check it out for yourself.”

Dean follows Sam as far as the shed and goes inside to make sure he did not overlook anything when he searched it before. The shed is small, so not much to go through. There are the two gas cans Tristan had mentioned, and a lawn mower.

Dean steps outside, looks at the grass. It could definitely use a trim.

It’s not like they have any idea of how to proceed from here anyway.

The lawnmower starts right up, motor purring like a dream. 

There is something calming about mowing, the way you just keep pushing forward, the way you can see results instantly, the long lines of shorn grass a testament to your efforts.

He is finished with one side of the yard and is just getting the little bit in front, when Sam exits the cabin dressed in sweats.

Dean shuts off the mower. “Thought you were checking out the garden.”

“I did,” Sam says, pushing back his forever wayward hair from his face. “You were right, it’s producing like it’s late summer or something. There’s tomatoes, peas, cucumbers, strawberries, even potatoes planted under the ground.”

“Strawberries?” Dean asks.

“Such a shocker the sweet fruit is what you picked up on,” Sam responds, but his smile is fond. “I picked some that were ripe, then decided to go for a jog before lunch.”

Dean’s chest feels tight. “A jog? Do you think that’s wise?”

Sam’s doing some kind of weird stretchy thing that has him bending all over and Dean has to avert his eyes before they latch upon to the thing his dick had earl – no, not going to think about that.

“I think it’s worth checking out to see if there is a trail around here that will lead us out of this place. Also, there might be signs that we missed while in the car that would be more visible on foot.”

“Signs?” Dean asks, cause he doesn’t like the sound of that at all.

Sam shrugs. “Evidence of something supernatural.”

“I thought it was the book doing this.”

“I think it’s the book, but we don’t have any way of knowing. Plus, I need the exercise so –” Sam blows out a breath. “I can see that look in your eyes, I will be fine. If I see anything out of place or that shouldn’t be there, I’ll come back and get you and we’ll decide what to do together.”

“Damn right you will,” Dean says. Sam apparently takes that as an okay and begins jogging down the road. Dean watches Sam until Sam disappears. He checks his watch. He will give him two hours and then he’s going after him.

Maybe an hour and a half.

He finishes mowing the yard but that calm feeling he was enjoying before is gone. 

He checks his watch. It’s been almost an hour. That’s plenty of time for Sam to be out there exploring.

He pulls his car keys out of his pocket.

Sam comes jogging back, a little sweatier than he was when he left, but otherwise he looks fine.

Dean lets out the breath he did not even know he was holding.

“Any signs?” he asks because he can fake nonchalance with the best of them.

Sam bends over to catch his breath, gives Dean a knowing look as he straightens back up. Maybe Dean isn’t as good at faking nonchalance as he thinks he is. “I’m fine, nothing happened. No signs, no Tristan or Issy, every trail I took at some point steered me right back here. I did find a lake, it’s apparently on the edge of where whatever this is allows us to go. Every time I tried to jog to the other side of it, I would find myself approaching the lake again.”

A lake?

“We should go check that out,” Dean says, shoving his car key back in his pocket. “And you should jump right in, because I can smell you from way over here.”

Sam flips him off and decides to take a bath instead. Spoilsport.

Dean follows Sam’s directions and sure enough, about a mile down a trail that winds through the woods, there is a clearing with a nice sized lake. The water is so clear, he can make out the shape of a few fish swimming underneath the surface. He takes off his shoes, sits down on the bank and dangles his feet in the water. It is a nice day, the sun is out, it is pleasantly warm but not hot.

He begins to point out the wildflowers growing on the other side of the lake, before remembering Sam is back at the cabin. He puts his shoes back on without waiting for his feet to dry, and follows the trail back to Sam.

He comes back to find Sam has cut up a lot of vegetables and has fried some ham he found in the refrigerator. 

“There’s a few fishing poles in the shed,” Dean says to Sam as he is finishing his meal. “Might be nice to have fish for dinner.”

“Might be,” Sam agrees. “If there was someone here who would clean the fish and fry it.”

“There are rules about these things. The man catches the fish, and the lady of the house cleans and fries it.”

Sam glares at him. “I can fish just as well as you can. So, how did I end up in the role of the lady of the house?”

Dean stands up, gathers the plates, bumps Sam’s chair with his hip,on his way to the sink. “It’s the hair.”

Sam sighs. “The hair jokes never get old Dean.”

“I know,” Dean says, smirking at his brother. 

By the time Dean finishes with the dishes, Sam is pouring over that damn book again. It’s not healthy, the way he is beginning to obsess about it.

Dean gets the fishing poles, there is even a tackle box, so he grabs that too. He goes back into the cabin. Sam hasn’t moved a muscle.

“We haven’t fished together in – I don’t know how long. C’mon Sam, if there is something in that book, you would have found it by now.”

“It’s our only lead,” Sam says, still hunched over the book.

Dean grabs it from him. “You know, I was right the first night we were here. I should drown this thing.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “You might be onto something, if we threw it in the middle of the lake – just maybe –”

“I’m a fucking genius,” Dean grins. “Last one to the lake is a rotten egg.”

“Real mature –” Sam begins, but Dean has already unceremoniously dropped the fishing gear and is running out of the cabin, book in hand.

Sam might be bigger, and stronger maybe, but Dean is fucking fast. He tears down the trail, ignoring the rocks and branches littering the ground, not stopping until he’s at the edge of the lake. It is a good two minutes before Sam comes wheezing up behind him.

“I was tired after running today already,” Sam grumbles after he catches his breath. “Otherwise I would have beat you and your saggy old ass.”

“If you want to delude yourself into believing that, go for it,” Dean says, heart still pounding from the run and the way that Sam’s face is flushed and he the way he is glowing. “And by the way, there is nothing saggy about my ass. I’ll pull my pants down right now and show you how unsaggy my ass is.”

Sam’s flushed face turns even redder, which is interesting, and a look passes so quickly in his eyes that Dean, who knows his brother inside and out, can’t quite decipher it. “I prefer it if you left your clothes on, but thanks anyway.”

“Shall we?” Dean asks, holding the book over the water. 

He throws the book and it lands a good distance into the lake, they watch as the lake ripples and then settles. Nothing happens. The lake is silent, birds are still chirping, the afternoon sun is still shining down on them.

“Maybe it worked?” Sam asks, he sounds doubtful.

They hike back to the cabin, this time at a more normal pace. They put their backpacks in the trunk. They set out.

And end up back at the cabin.

They don’t talk about it. Sam gets one of the other books, settles on the rocking chair and pays no attention to Dean.

Dean grabs one of the fishing poles, because why the hell not, and heads back to the lake.

When he gets there, the book is lying on the grass. Dry, and in pristine condition. Dean kicks it several times, but it doesn’t help.

One day passes, two.

Every day they come up with something new to try, every day they fail.

They spend time at the lake fishing, they always throw the fish back. 

Sam spends his mornings in the garden, harvesting all the fruit and vegetables that should not be ripe yet.

They find a pecan tree, the ground littered with pecans. An apple tree with red delicious apples. Dean thinks longily of pie but settles for baked apples smothered in butter.

After a few disastrous attempts, Dean figures out the right amount of time to roast the coffee beans. He thinks he is missing a few steps in the process, because the coffee he brews does not taste great, but coffee is coffee.

Sam is suitably impressed with his efforts and grateful for the caffeine

There is enough food that they don’t have to worry about it for a while yet. But Sam worries, Dean can tell.

He finds himself scooting his chair closer to Sam when they sit in those rocking chairs at night, like two old people, rocking the night away as they watch the fireflies dance and play.

He finds himself helping Sam with the garden, walking with him to the lake. They spend all their time together, but Dean still yearns.

More than once, he finds himself reaching for Sam’s hand, or watching the way Sam bends over as he tends to his garden, or his eyes latch on to Sam’s throat as he gulps down a tall glass of water.

Before, when the feelings got too intense he could escape to a bar, or take Baby for a spin, or find them a hunt so he could focus on safer things.

Now he can go to the lake solo sure, but after just a handful of minutes his skin begins to prickle and he becomes uneasy and he makes his way back to Sam.

Every night Dean makes sure he is an acceptable distance from Sam when he lies down and closes his eyes.

Every morning he wakes up with arms and legs entangled with Sam’s, with his cock hard and wanting.

Until the morning, four days into their enforced stay, he wakes up, with his lips pressed against Sam’s.


	4. Sam

Sam’s eyes fly open. Dean’s green eyes are wide, staring right into his. Their lips are still pressed together.

Sam pulls back, scrambles into a sitting position.

He can’t look at his brother. He can still feel Dean’s lips against his, can still feel the ache for more.

He’s really fucked up now.

“Sorry, Sam,” Dean mumbles as he hurries out of the bed and who can blame him for rushing away? “I don’t know what happened I just – I’m really fucking sorry.”

And there is Dean, his idiotic self-sacrificing brother, taking the blame for what is clearly Sam’s fault. “I’m the one who is sorry,” Sam says, forcing himself to look at his brother. Dean’s eyes are still wide, his lips wet and even fuller than normal like they had been kissing for a while. Sam looks back down at his hands. “This is my fault.”

“It really isn’t,” Dean insists, but then turns toward the door. “I’ll just see about breakfast.”

It takes a long time for Sam’s heart to stop racing after Dean leaves the room. It takes even longer for Sam to work up the courage to join Dean in the kitchen.

After a completely silent breakfast, Sam heads out to the garden. Alone. Dean has been going with him, helping him out, muttering when Sam picks green tomatoes and grousing that no sane person eats them green, or any other way other than on top of a greasy hamburger where they belong.

It’s too quiet out here without Dean.

Sam thinks about how much time they have been spending together, how strange it is that they haven’t been tearing out the walls trying to figure out an escape, how they have found a strange kind of peace and enjoyment in this isolated place.

Until he had to ruin it all.

He was going to sleep in the shed tonight, it was the only way Dean would be able to feel safe. Although Dean would fight him on it because Dean has always put Sam’s comfort over his own safety.

Sam washes the newly picked vegetables in the kitchen sink, the house is silent. He looks out the window, Dean has the hood up and is working on his car.

Sam pulls out the book.

He can only read a few pages, the ones in Latin mostly, but he knows enough of Greek to understand a part of what is being written. Each page is different, some are spells, some are probably curses like the one that trapped them here, a few just seem to be stories, a couple about the ancient gods, a poem about a long-gone pair of lovers.

Sam fixes lunch and tries to figure out a way to get them back on even ground. He feels off-kilter, lost, with Dean not even able to look him in the eye.

“Laundry day,” Sam announces after lunch is over.

Dean is washing dishes, Sam is drying and putting them away. It’s a pattern that is instinctive to them, that they can follow even with this big mistake of Sam’s hovering between them.

“Yeah, you are right. My boxers are beginning to stand up by themselves,” Dean replies with a hint of his normal mischievousness. 

“Too much information dude,” Sam says to him and Dean grins and the world is suddenly back on track.

They decide to take the laundry to the lake, along with a bar of soap, and a length of rope that Sam plans to tie between two trees to pose as a clothesline.

It’s a beautiful day, in fact every day they have been here has been beautiful. The sun shines down, but not oppressively, and the air is warm. There are a few lazy clouds in the sky, butterflies dancing around their feet as they approach the lake, birds singing to each other as they set their bundle of clothes down.

Sam ties the length of rope between two trees, as Dean begins washing the clothes with the soap they had found in the bathroom. Sam joins him, and they make quick work of the chore.

“Might as well wash these while we are at it,” Dean says, as he stands and begins to unbutton his shirt.

Sam stares at Dean’s fingers, watches as each button is unfastened, as pale, white skin is revealed. It is with only herculean effort, that Sam forces his glance away as Dean begins to tug at his sleeves. 

By the time he dares look up again, Dean is standing there wearing only his boxers.

Dean’s youth has been left behind him, as has Sam’s, and Dean as a young adult had been so beautiful both men and women had looked at him with naked longing in their gaze.

But somehow, now, standing in front of Sam, Dean looks even more beautiful. His muscles aren’t as apparent when covered up as Sam’s are, but they are very apparent now, his muscular chest, thin waist, and the bulge in his boxers – 

Shit, he is doing it again.

Sam turns his back to Dean, and quickly disrobes. 

They each wash their own clothes, hang them up to dry.

“Might as well swim,” Dean says with a shrug, and then tugs down his boxers.

Sam knows he is staring open mouthed, he can feel his checks flush, the flush so deep it travels down to his chest.

Dean’s cock hangs between his legs, long, firm, beautiful

It’s not the first time Sam has seen Dean’s cock, not the first time he’s yearned for it either.

But out here, with how close they have been, in these surreal circumstances they have found themselves in, it is the first time Sam has to dig his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from reaching out and touching it.

Dean grins at him and Sam wonders if he knows, if he suspects, then Dean takes a few running steps and cannonballs himself into the lake.

The resulting splash is so high, some of the water hits Sam.

“Come on in Sam, the water is fine,” Dean calls out to him.

Despite all that has happened to him, all that he has been through, and the heavy weight he always carries on his shoulders, there is something childlike in the joy Dean finds in the simple things. It’s infectious.

Still Sam hesitates, there is something in the air, something that feels like this decision is so much bigger than deciding whether or not to go skinny dipping with Dean.

Dean begins to make chicken sounds, arms flapping. 

“Real mature Dean,” Sam chides, but his hands are on the band of his boxers, as if he has decided without even realizing it.

“Come in and do something about it then,” Dean challenges him and oh, that’s it, Sam is going in.

He pulls down his boxers quickly, before he can change his mind. He takes several steps back, and then runs toward the lake.

Dean is trying to scramble backwards, to the safety of deeper waters, but it is too late for him.

Sam cannonballs directly beside Dean, because his aim is true, Dean goes down in the resulting tidal wave of water.

He’s underwater for a long length of time, long enough that Sam begins to worry.

And then his legs are yanked hard, and Sam is underwater himself, held tight by his brother.

They wrestle in the water like they did when they were children, on the few occasions they were allowed to be. They splash, they yank, they push.

Dean puts Sam in a choke hold, Sam returns the favor.

They are laughing when they find themselves wrapped tightly around each other, and then they are no longer wrestling.

Sam can feel his heart beating in his chest, and can hear how hard he is breathing.

Dean’s eyes are shining so brightly, Sam can feel the tremors in his own body from how deeply Dean is laughing. When Dean is truly happy, he laughs with his whole body.

Sam is happy Dean is happy. He’s happy to be here, in this lake, with his brother. He is happy to be in his brother’s arms.

Water is dripping from Dean’s hair, onto his face, glittering drops of water that catch on his long eyelashes, that travel down his porcelain skin. Dean is a water nymph, beautiful and real and perfect.

And then, as if with one accord, Dean leans forward and Sam does too, and they are kissing again.

This isn’t the kiss they shared their morning, a simple pressing of lips. This is a real kiss, the open-mouthed, hungry kind. Their tongues explore each other’s mouths, their bodies are so close, their cocks are as closely pressed together as their mouths. 

The warning bells in Sam’s brain, the ones that warn him away from Dean when he gets too close, when he wants too much, are silent as they both abandon themselves to the kiss.

They are gasping for breath when they break apart.

Sam waits for the disgust, the incriminations, but they do not come.

Dean’s eyes are locked onto his, searching for something.

If there was ever a moment for honesty, this was it. They are still in each other’s arms, and Sam takes his courage from that.

“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” he confesses.

Dean gives a startled gasp of a laugh. “Not half as long as I have.”

Hope blooms in Sam.

“What does this make us?” Dean asks, after a few moments. “Two brothers who want each other like this.”

“Lucky,” Sam replies and then he adds, hesitantly. “I thought it was only me, that felt this way.”

“Same,” Dean says, and he kisses Sam’s forehead. “I never dreamt I could actually have this.”

They kiss again, softly, sweetly, then Dean reaches down and pinches Sam’s ass.

“Hey!” Sam pulls away, Dean is grinning at him all mischievous and breathtaking and – his.

“Where do we go from here,” Sam asks, they are lazily spinning in the water, still entertwined.

“We can take this as slow as you want,” Dean says to him. “I like kissing you, we can just keep kissing forever if that is all you want.”

“I want you to make love to me,” Sam replies, because now that he has hopped on the honesty train, apparently he is going to ride it all the way in.

“It’s what I want too, what I’ve always wanted but there is nothing here we can use to ease the way,” Dean says. “We should take this back to the cabin where I can lay you out on the bed, do this right.”

That’s exactly what they should do. Maybe by the time they reach the cabin they will have come to their senses.

Sam grabs Dean and pulls him in tight. “I want you inside of me, right here and now. We’ve waited too long for this as it is, I don’t want to wait a minute longer.”

Dean tugs on Sam’s hips, presses him impossibly closer, and answers with a kiss that sears into Sam’s body, deep into his soul.

Sam hooks his legs around Dean’s waist, the weightlessness of the water making the action possible. Their cocks are heavy and hard, pressed tightly between them.

Sam’s fingers graze Dean’s nipples, then he pinches them lightly. He hears Dean hiss, feels how hard the nipples are between his fingers.

Dean’s fingers are probing around his hole, a fingertip pushes in.

Sam’s body rocks with the shock of it, almost toppling them both over.

“Maybe we should try this lying down,” Dean suggests as Sam places his feet back on the bottom of the lake, steadying them both.

“Good idea,” Sam replies.

They hold hands as they leave the water. The towels they washed are still damp, but they place them on the ground anyway. Sam lies down, Dean hovers over him.

The water dripping from Dean’s skin looks so delicious, Sam lifts his head up, licks it off Dean’s neck, humming his appreciation.

“Sam,” Dean breathes out. “Sammy.”

“Hmmm,” Sam hums in answer and he licks behind Dean’s ear, feels how Dean shudders.

Dean’s hands grasp on to Sam’s waist, he pulls, and Sam is straddling Dean’s lap.

He feels Dean’s cock, hot and heavy, underneath him and he squirms.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to lose it before I even get inside of you,” Dean warns.

Sam hums again. “That would be a shame.”

His tongue is still exploring, taking a detour to explore the depths of Dean’s mouth, Dean’s hair is wet where Sam is grabbing on to it. He feels everything so intensely, the way Dean tastes, how smooth Dean’s skin is as he explores it, the weight of Dean’s cock pressing against him.

Dean lifts him up slightly, so he can slide his hands under Sam’s ass. Fingers still damp with water probe Sam’s hole. A tip of one presses slowly inside.

It’s not the first time Sam has felt fingers inside of him, but always before they have been his own, with his bedroom door locked, and biting his lip to stifle the noises he made. Imagining Dean’s fingers and feeling them are two different things. There is a pinch of pain, as Dean’s finger presses in. Sam takes deep breaths, forces himself to relax.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dean says, finger stilling inside of Sam.

“You won’t,” Sam replies, and he’s still telling the truth because he’s not talking about the physical pain that will be brief and nothing he cannot handle.

He kisses Dean again; because Dean’s lips are like a drug for which he hopes there is no cure. Dean’s finger is all the way in now, scissoring, stretching.

Dean pulls the finger out, moistens his fingers again with the damp towel, and this time it is two fingers entering Sam. It is a tight fit, and a sharper bite of pain, but then Dean’s other hand reaches between them, grasps Sam’s cock firmly, and begins to stroke and Sam can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain and does not really want to.

His mouth latches on to Dean’s hard nipples, tonguing and letting his teeth lightly scrape them. Dean moans, and it’s a heady sound that Sam wants to hear over and over again, so he takes the second nipple in his mouth and plays with it.

Dean is rocking against him, and his cock is so close to where Sam wants it to be and the fingers are not enough, not even close. “I’m ready,” he says before he kisses Dean again.

They both know it’s not enough prep, but Dean’s fingers leave him, and instead grip onto his hip and Sam shifts, aligning Dean’s cock with his hole.

He is still kissing Dean as he slowly, so very slowly, sinks onto Dean’s cock.

It’s never going to fit, it is too big, Sam is too tight, everything feels electric and intense and raw and little by little he sinks down, claiming Dean’s gasps with his mouth.

For minutes, or merely seconds, because time has no meaning and nothing exists but the two of them, they stay like that, joined as intimately as two people can be, Dean’s fingers grip tightly in his hair with one hand, grip tightly his hip with the other.

“I love you,” Dean says, and he’s never said those words to him, not like this, and Sam wonders if it is possible to drown in happiness.

Sam begins to move, slowly, just a little. He lifts himself up, carefully slides back down. Both of Dean’s hands on hips now, not guiding, but stabilizing him.

Dean’s cock is pressing against his prostate, and Sam’s pain drifts away, replaced by the white-hot pleasure his own fingers had never achieved for him. He wants this to be slow, wants to savor it, wants to sear it into his memory.

“You are perfect sweetheart,” Dean murmurs. “Taking me so beautifully.”

Sam lifts himself up a little higher, the slide down is a bit faster.

Dean’s fingers are gripping his hips so tightly, he will definitely bruise and that’s okay, that’s wonderful actually. Sam tilts his head back, laughs as he slides back down again, as Dean’s cock presses into his prostate and sends electric pleasure through his body.

Dean’s hips are moving with Sam now, they are in sync, Sam shoves himself down as Dean pushes up and desperation begins to build. Sam rocks down harder, Dean’s cock pushes back into him, Dean is helping him lift up, his hands gripping tightly as Sam is held up high, and then pushed back down.

Sam’s cock is so hard, and he aches and he whisper-whines, “Dean.”

Dean lets him go so he can reach into that impossible small space between them, and his hand on Sam’s cock is firm and steady and he strokes Sam as Sam plunges down on Dean’s cock over and over again.

He feels Dean’s cock tighten inside of him, sees Dean’s mouth open and Sam comes at the same time, calling out Dean’s name over and over again as he spills between the two of them and Dean fills him up

“I came so hard I think I actually saw stars,” Dean says, after they ride out the aftershocks.

Sam smiles, blissful in the afterglow. “You’re welcome.”

He looks into Dean’s eyes with their adorable crinkles and thinks, it’s right this happened now that they are older. He knows if they had made love years ago, he would have been racked with self-doubt, obsessed with the right or wrong of it. And back then, Dean certainly didn’t need a layer of guilt to add to the burden he carried.

But they were long past worrying about shades of grey, or what the world would think of them. The world can fuck itself, they deserve this.

And to prove it, Sam cups Dean’s face gently and kisses him again.

Lifting off of Dean is a loss that Sam can only bear with the knowledge that this is not the last time, he will have this again.

They take a quick dip into the lake, gather their still damp clothes.

They walk hand in hand back to the cabin, naked.

They are out of the woods, almost to the cabin when Sam speaks again. “It’s souls.”

“What?” Dean asks.

“I thought it was the wind, but the depiction in the picture, it is souls. I don’t think it’s a curse after all that trapped us here, I think it was a spell.”

“Because we are soulmates?” Dean asks, sitting on one of the rocking chairs and pulling Sam on top of him.

Sam knows he is too heavy to sit on Dean’s lap, and heaven knows how this chair is bearing the weight of both of them, but he snuggles in anyway. 

“Ash said something similar, a long time ago. At that time, I dismissed it because, well I thought the way I was feeling was one-way –”

“As did I,” Dean says, “If we hadn’t been so blind, we could have had this long ago.”

“Also, I’m pretty sure the little old couple was Tristan and Isolde. I’m guessing they act as guides, helping soul mates find each other.”

“Who now?” Dean asks, nibbling on Sam’s ear.

“I’ll tell you the story another time, suffice it to say it is epic and sad.” Sam squirms a bit, can’t help but press into Dean’s crotch.

“Ours is definitely epic, but we’ve both had enough sadness in our lives,” Dean declares. “After all we’ve been through, I am not going to let anything get in the way of our happy-ever-after that includes lots and lots of fantastic sex.”

Sam laughs and thinks about how the reality of being in Dean’s arms is so much better than any dream he ever had. “Me either,” Sam kisses him, and then reluctantly stands up. “Anyway, I think we can go now.”

“Tomorrow,” Dean says, and takes Sam’s hand in his, kisses it. “Let’s spend the night here, the world can wait another day.”

With Dean’s lips against his, giving him slow lazy kisses, Sam is only too happy to agree.


End file.
